


Turnabout

by ang3lba3



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Biting, Blood, F/F, Incest (mention), Light BDSM, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Scratching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 04:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11200224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3
Summary: You steal away to meet her in the dark, and she steals your breath. Such is the way of witches, and bitches, and broads too clever for their own good.





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

> see end notes to get details on the Incest (mention) if you need to
> 
> i might write more of these two, just one shots, because i really do love them and theres like... zero fic for them....

You steal away to meet her in the dark, and she steals your breath. Such is the way of witches, and bitches, and broads too clever for their own good.

You’d say that her hands are her most clever feature, if it wasn’t for that tongue, that tongue which traces your lip before she bites down. Her teeth are sharp—so sharp—it’s hardly any effort at all to split your delicate skin. It makes you choke a little, as that peculiar venom of hers spreads through your body. Whether it is biological or something unique to the psychological appeal of these trysts of yours, you still do not know.

She leads you to her bed, and it is in the very back of a castle, reachable only by tunnels far out of sight of those respectable ladies and gentlemen who live inside the rock walls.

“Damara,” you whisper when you stand before the threadbare mattress, because this is a game, and games have rules, and breaking all of them is when you have the most fun.

Damara strikes you, and you gasp. You move with it more than you need to, let yourself be sprawled on her bed, skirts rucked up to show that you wear nothing underneath.

A lady of your station should not be consorting with another woman in such a manner.

A lady of your status should not be wet between the legs at the feel of a troll’s teeth in her flesh.

“What do you call me?” she says, and she is but a handmaid, but she towers over you now, kicking your legs open further casually. Her Derse is broken in front of others but here, now, it is perfectly clear. Such is the way between you two.

“Mistress,” you breathe, and roll flat on your back, unable to keep the eagerness separated from the fear on your face, under your skin. Between your legs—no, why be coy, why be coy with her standing before you and her name on your lips—your _cunt_ throbs with it.

“Mind your place, Rose,” she says, with such mocking in it that you wince. You know how often she hears others say that to you, princess though you may be, and she delights in the way it hits a chord of something far too real in your chest.

“Why, Mistress, if you’ll look at me, I’m sure that you can see I do.”

You smile, flat, dull, white teeth, trace a hand down the browned skin of your throat, undo the first of the hooks down the front of your bodice and reveal your smooth skinned breasts. You smile, utterly and completely human.

She laughs, caustically, bitterly, and you know you’ve hit your mark. There is no need to keep her voice down, not in these lonely cement square she calls a home. Lord knows that you’ve been louder before.

“If you’re so eager to undress, I’ll help,” she says, and she reaches down. She doesn’t file her nails, or rather doesn’t file them _dull._ Other trolls might in an effort to appease humans simply for their existence, to appear ‘harmless’ as if their race could ever. That she should ever be anything as lofty as your handmaid is sheerly luck and the fact that you like those nails digging into the soft flesh of her thighs.

Damara’s claws, _so sharp so sharp so sharp,_ rip through the dress’ soft linen fabric cleanly, shred it down the middle and down past your navel to pause where the styled bodice ends and your skirts begin. She isn’t careful, or perhaps she is purposeful instead, because her claws leave light scratches down your flesh, leave half sobs in your breath.

You want her so much it hurts.

She leans down, licks the blood from the scratches with a tongue bifurcated and inhuman, bites a sharp circle into the easy give of your right breast.

“Vampire,” you say, and it begs, it _pleads,_ even as it jeers.

“Hardly that,” she says, and rips your dress the rest of the way open. You cry out, although her fingers do not touch you. It is the threat, the way she leans a hand against your stomach to steady herself, claws leaving pinpricks.

“You could rip me open,” you say, and it is not exactly fear in your voice, but it is not exactly arousal either.

“And I would eat your heart for eternal life and beauty,” she says, grinning. It splits her face near in half. You shudder, and her fingers dig into your stomach a little deeper. “Isn’t that how the story goes?”

You shrug the remainders of your skirt off of your legs awkwardly, but it is worth it to wrap both limbs around her hips. Her skirt is short, functional for running messages and chores and looking pretty, not the heavy long things that are designed to protect your modesty from any onlookers despite their impracticality. The bulge under the cloth writhes against you.

“I’d let you,” you say, and mean it. She makes a harsh noise at that, and moves her hand to the pillow beside your head, kisses you proper and vicious. She devours your breath and your moans as you rock your hips against the cheap cotton of her skirt. It chafes, even with the lubricant your cunt is so willingly providing, but you don’t care.

She frees her bulge and moves to your collarbone, biting marks where no one will see but you and her. They will ache even more come morning, and you will press your hand to your chest with steady pressure to remember them, and your tutor will ask if you feel faint. You’ll shake your head, and continue to learn the proper ettiquette for a troll ambassador from a human who calls Damara _girl_ as he asks her for water for the (delicate, wilting) princess.

“Please,” you gasp, but she holds her bulge just short of entering you, sets it against your clit and lets it writhe. “Oh, go-d!”

“What do you call me?” she asks, dark and smiling that terrible smile, the one that makes you hot and goose pimpled.

“Mi-” you choke on the word when her mouth seals around your nipple, sucking and teasing. “Please, please, Mistress, please—”

“You’re so pretty when you beg,” she says, pecks a soft kiss on your lips that doesn’t match with the ferousity of her bulge when she lets it go. It worms into your cunt, stretching you near painfully wide. “Imagine what the Crown Prince would say if he could see you like this, hmm? Maybe he’d let you watch him and his little freak. Maybe he’d let us play too.”

“Wh-what?” you ask shakily, almost too caught up in the attentions of her bulge to understand her words.

“Nothing, you soft thing,” she says, and laughs. It makes her bulge twitch restlessly inside you, and you slam your hips upwards. It’s just rigid enough for you to push it to the hilt, and you stop moving for a moment.

She’s stolen your air again, and she cradles your head and presses your lips together brutally, stealing your tongue and the walls of your cheeks. Her tongue very nearly slithers down your throat. You gag, and she pulls out and watches you cough.

“The things you’d let me do to you…” she says, almost marvels.

Your arms loop around the back of her neck, and you draw her into you, in one smooth movement, _hips_ and _hands_ and _mouth_ and _cunt_. You feel her groan into your mouth, and you fuck.

You don’t fuck like animals, but you don’t fuck like anything you’ve read in the castle’s approved romance novels either, or like your mother said your wedding night would be. Whatever this is, it feels good, her nails and her bulge and her lips and her body making you forget what it is to be anything but hers.

She doesn’t use you as her pail, only does so when you’re in the baths and it can be easily washed away, and when you come too many times to be anything but a twitching mass of nerves, she grabs your limp hands and wraps her bulge around one and rubs the other against her nook. When she comes she sucks on the fingers that had been against her and bites down just hard enough you cry out.

You stay until you can move again, her holding you in her arms like she never would outside of these stolen moments. She wipes you clean with a rag, and checks your wounds to make sure none are too deep. You stay longer than you need to recover.

You almost ask her, _what is this, what are we?,_ but you don’t.

There are rules to the game, and you break them sometimes just to see her face, but some…

Some are best left unbroken.

**Author's Note:**

> damara suggests the Crown Prince (dave) watching them, or having sex with them. its like one line and quickly moved past.


End file.
